As the general spoke, a stream of ale snaked under George’s foot like a creek might take to the woods.
“Grandeur?” he said. “There are freedmen littered about the countryside having to beg, borrow, and steal, while you dole out rations to those who would spit on each and every one of them if given the chance.”
No, there was no grandeur in this town, he said, no unanimity of purpose. At least not with the Union. It was all just the same divisiveness that had brought the place, along with the rest of the South, to ruin.
“Mr. Walker, those men you speak of were freed by my hand. And the cost is restitution to those in this community who have lost their entire way of life. That is not unfair. Actually, on reflection, it’s quite just.”
“Given the same information, General, you and I have reached opposite conclusions.”
Glass, in a show of mild exasperation, whispered to George in an inflection altogether different from his previous tone—as though to speak in confidence might exert a charming effect.
“I was under the impression that half this town was once under your father’s ownership. Surely you would wish to do well by his legacy, no? Let’s work together. Let’s help those less fortunate than we are.”
George would’ve stepped back had he not already been up against the bar.
“Whatever my father accomplished does not require that I work with the likes of Wade Webler,” he said. “He has taken you for a fool if you think he has any other wish than to capitalize on this town’s decline.”
“I see. Well, if you might reconsider—”
“Let me make this clear. I would rather lay down in a pigpen and let the beasts have at me than participate in your council. Besides, I have enough on my hands on my farm. Now I must be going.”
But it was Glass who made to leave. The smile, somehow, had not left his face, and he simply extended his hand once more.
“We have no further business, then,” he said, with unfailing warmth. “A very good night to you, Mr. Walker.”
“And to you,” George said.
The Union soldiers followed their leader out the door, and George, rather than departing, ordered a glass of whiskey to calm his senses. Only when he had downed that one and was holding a second did he turn to find Ezra, seated on the second floor at his usual table, the only one with any charm, a substantial oak plank dulled to a slippery glaze by years of wear and spilt drink. No one bothered him unless invited to do so, and he appeared lost in his own world until George approached. He was dressed in his business wear, his derby still donned. Before him lay a feast: a leg of mutton sweating out its juices, a single stewed peach, and puny asparagus points with the look, taken together, of a bony child’s fingers.
George asked if he was enjoying himself.
“There is excellent entertainment to be found here for any passionate spectator of humanity.”
“Your favorite pastime,” George said, taking a seat.
“If not my only pastime. I saw you had an introduction to Arnold Glass.”
“Sadly. He wants me to join some ludicrous committee.”
“I heard as much.”
“Well, I declined, with some prejudice, no less.”
“As did I, though perhaps for different reasons. If I’m to be honest, I’ve grown numb to those looking for favors.”
Ezra picked up the mutton leg, inspecting it like a diamond in need of a grade.
“There is not a soul in this town, General Glass included, who hasn’t petitioned me for this or that. Just look at these sorry sorts. Home from the front and already pleading for a loan, begging on street corners, only to squander what little they have here each night by poisoning themselves with swill. Telling their vapid war stories to anyone who might listen and complaining of the Negro who has somehow stolen their jobs. As if they would work for a Negro’s wage. As if they would work at all. A whole town wallowing in its own sadness. Pathetic.”
His fleshy jowls rippled as he swallowed, his lips shimmering with lamb fat.
“You know,” George said, “when I look in the mirror in the morning I see a miserable old bastard looking back at me. Yet when I see you, I take great comfort, knowing how much progress I have left to make on that same path.”
Ezra laughed up a bit of food, then caught himself, his smile disappearing.
“You think I delight in sharing my bleak thoughts on humanity.” He licked his fingers to the knuckle and dried them with his napkin. “But for someone acclimated to loss, someone who accepts its inevitability, the only recourse is to seek out joy in the darkest corridors of life, even when the calamity is befalling others. There’s a word for that. The joy of sorrow. Another man’s sorrow.”